


somewhere on the other side

by thoseguitarists



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Kinda, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Narry - Freeform, like very mild, minor minor minor mentions of self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7756738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoseguitarists/pseuds/thoseguitarists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And he had it all planned out, Harry did. Everything ― what he’d say, what he’d do, how he’d do it; it was all here, all there, in his mind and in his heart, and he kept track of it. Every word, every sentence, every apology; wanted to go in prepared, wanted to go in strong and come out stronger. Weak, twisted and torn and warped in two, but still strong. But seeing him now, seeing Niall now, and noticing a change and realizing it’s him, it’s Harry, it’s his fault, it’s his doing, and all the words and actions turn into water in his hands, dribbling away till there’s nothing left behind but the wet remains of his shattered heart and Niall’s horrified soul. </p><p>
  <i>(Or, wherein Harry breaks up with Niall just before the filming of Dunkirk starts and he's got a long way to go before he can forgive himself let alone accept the forgiveness of others, if that's possible at all.)<i></i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	somewhere on the other side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fairynarrytale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairynarrytale/gifts).



> Title taken from Augustana. 
> 
> I'm not sure how I feel about this still, but it's a hell of a lot better than it first was with 10k more words than the original. Also, it isn't canon compliant, so please forgive all the fake things you may see here and there. It makes for a bit of a good story.

“You got the part?”

Harry nods, smiles, turns his head to the side so Niall can’t see how big his grin is, can’t see how bright his grin is. It’s not particularly fresh news, the fact that Harry’s got himself a part in an already highly-acclaimed movie, because of all the rumors that have been flying around lately; however, he was asked to keep his achievement to himself for a while and now that it’s been released that he’s not only got a part but a lead, he reckons it’s okay for him to tell a few people.

Most people were throwing fits when he posted the picture of his chopped off hair, anyway, and he reckons it was confirmed then, more or less, even though it was for a completely different reason that has been somewhat overshadowed by the rumors of his acting debut.

Gotta love social media.

A few people translates into his mum and Gemma over the phone, complete with tears from the former and squeals from the latter, and Louis and Liam via text in a group chat with the two of them that he has to delete periodically when the Louis decides he wants to send inappropriate pictures, and Niall in person ― because he’s Harry’s best friend, because he’s Harry’s solid rock of comforting foundation, because he’s Harry’s boyfriend.

And there’s a couple of things the two of them need to discuss before they go on with their… with their _relationship_ , if it can be called that. They’re just ― they’re just _together_ , and that’s enough for them, for the two of them.

Maybe.

“I did,” Harry says, whispers, confirms, and they’re alone in the shiny hotel room Niall booked for his weekend stay in London, close and touching and breathing one another’s air, and this isn’t the first time Harry’s felt it but it’s the first time he’s begged to feel it and feel it and _feel it_ , and Harry wants to keep as quiet as he can, wants to stay as soft as he can because there’s bound to be yelling, bound to be anger when he speaks his heart, his mind, and he doesn’t want to break Niall but it’s the only way. “I got the part.”

“I knew you would,” Niall replies, grins, and then he lurches forward, wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and squeezes, tight tight tight, and the rush, the abruptness of it all has Harry falling backward onto the bed as he laughs, as he wraps Niall up, too, and holds him just as close, just as strong. He puts his face in the crease of Niall’s shoulder and neck, nuzzling at his throat, and Niall smells like apples and spice, like hugs and smiles, like fresh sheets and coming home and smiles against skin and fingers combing out the snarls in his hair on those long moments after a rigorous concert where all he can hear and see and see and taste and touch is adrenaline. “I’m so, so proud of you, Harry. I’m so excited ― I’m so glad you’re going to be doing something you’ve wanted to do for a while now.”

Harry chooses to stay silent, instead readjusts his grip on Niall and rolls them over till they’re both on their sides, intertwined and interlaced and tangled up like the strings of their hearts; the lighting in the hotel is dim because Niall’s only got a small lamp in the corner turned on, but it’s enough illumination that Harry can see every one of the tiny, tiny flecks of pure gold in Niall’s blue eyes.

He wonders if this is the last night ― _f_ _or it all_.

It makes his throat thick, makes his chest curl, makes his heart hurt to know that he isn’t going to be able to look into Niall’s eyes for days, for weeks, for months. And that’s really the reason, you know ― a long distance relationship between the two of them isn’t going to work because they’ve only just gotten together, because they’re already too dependent and reliant on one another and being apart is going to tear them down singularly, is going to tear them down entirely.

And he doesn’t want to watch somebody like Niall self-destruct, doesn’t want to be the reason somebody like Niall loses his spark.

Niall’s too good, and Harry, for all that he is, doesn’t deserve to have the wholeness of this man’s affection, and he isn’t going to drag Niall’s heart through the desperation of keeping a love that’s lost all hope alive like ― like his was.

Something like that ― it hurts more than is comprehensible because it makes you weak, because it makes you vulnerable, because it makes you feel less than you are.

And Niall’s everything.

Harry’s only doing what both of them know has to be done, even if Niall’s choosing to not look at it, choosing to not believe it. Harry’s scared, and he’s in pain, but he’s never been one to run from a fight even though this is one he went looking for.

“You’re awfully quiet for somebody who’s just got the news of his life,” Niall says, quips, and his voice is a lost twang in the darkness, in the closeness; his eyes are wide and his hands are in Harry’s short hair, thumbing through the tresses, and one of his legs are splitting both of Harry’s, and they’ve laid like this before ― before they realized their attraction, before they capitalized on that attraction, before they harvested that attraction into what they have now ― and it’s still just as precious, just as pleasurable as it was the first time they fell onto the same bunk with one another all those years ago. “Say something. I love to hear your voice.”

Oh, God ― Niall has no idea how hard this is for Harry.

Harry smiles, though, just to make Niall happy, and it’s so large, so stretching, that he bites his bottom lip to hold as much of it in as he can. “I don’t have a lot of things to say to you right now,” he says, slow and languid and easy as he swipes the pad of his thumb across Niall’s lip, gathering the wetness and bringing his finger up to his own mouth to suck it off. Niall turns red, and it’s so pretty, and they’ve done stuff, as much as you can without going all the way, and he doesn’t want to pressure Niall, doesn’t want to push Niall, and he’s always stopped when Niall asked him to. He wonders if Niall will stop it tonight. “I just want to look at you for a little while longer.”

_‘Cause this is going to be the last time for me to appreciate you._

“You’re being extra adorable tonight.” Niall grins, scratches at Harry’s scalp with the blunt nails of his fingers, and it’s a massage, a touch that makes Harry purr, that makes Harry shift closer into Niall’s welcoming warmth and enthralling embrace. He’s going to miss it, and he’s found that it’s easier to miss things if you don’t have them. “I like your hair.”

“Yeah?”

Niall nods. “I’ve always liked it; nobody can pull off the long hair quite like you,” he elaborates, and he seems to be somewhat mystified by the lack of thick curls and slanted waves; Harry’s not sure if it’s ever been this short in all the time he’s known Niall, and, to be fair, it’s throwing him for a loop, as well. He doesn’t have to throw it up into a bun anymore when he wants to sleep, and after years of doing so, it’s simply weird to not. “It makes you look… older, kinda. Definitely more mature.”

Harry grunts, arches his body and topples Niall over, onto his back; he moves atop Niall, straddles Niall’s hips, and somehow he’s got Niall’s hands pinned down to the soft, soft bed, and Niall’s looking up at with him awe and he’s gazing down at Niall with hidden pain and unbridled fondness, passion.

It’s just not devotion.

He wonders if that makes him a bad person, wonders if that makes him less in the eyes of the world.

At least he isn’t going to lead Niall on, at least he isn’t going to string Niall’s feelings up for the whole world to see.

There’s a problem, and Harry sees a solution, and it might not be the best one but it’s the most feasible one he’s got, they’ve got, and ― and he isn’t afraid to break his heart if it means that Niall’s will still be okay in the end.

Because that’s what matters. In the end, Niall’s what matters the most, isn’t he?  

“You look so beautiful like this,” Harry says, muses; he drops down, anchors Niall’s head with his forearms and adjusts his lower hips till he’s pressed against Niall completely, flush and smooth, and the drifting emotions he’s getting from being so close, so close, so close are affluent and generous and _vibrant_ , and his groin is scratching delicately against Niall’s, _oh God_ , and it feels good. “I want to keep you like this for the rest of the night.”

It’s all the time they have left with one another; Harry’s going to make the best out of it before it’s too late to do so.

Niall wets his lips, and the quick movement of his tongue makes Harry gasp, makes Harry whimper in the back of his throat and buck his hips slowly, softly. “Then do it,” he says, grins, and Harry’s breathless as he leans down and slants his mouth across Niall’s lips in the first kiss the two of them have shared in weeks.

And it’s hot, too; Niall doesn’t waste any time, opens his mouth and curls his tongue into Harry’s, coaxes his out to play dirtily, and they swirl and dance, poking and prodding and licking and nipping, and Harry’s dragging in air raggedly through his nose and Niall’s making these tiny little noises, ah-ah-ah, and they’re in tune with the circling of his hips beneath Harry’s, yummy, and spit dribbles out of the side of Niall’s lips and Harry pulls back, sucks up the mixture as he breathes heavily, as Niall suckles on the sensitive skin just below his jaw.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry says, hisses; his fingers are in Niall’s hair, twining tightly, and he’s pulling, hard, collecting Niall’s whimpered noises against his skin as he shifts, as he bears down, as he creates a friction that lights the both of them on fire. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s off of Niall then, up and away, standing to the side of the bed; he’s hard in his jeans, hot and angrily weeping at the rutting, at the humping, and he runs a hand through his hair, flips it out of his face, pulls it out of frustration.

“We can’t,” he says, shakes his head. “Not yet ― not right now.”

Niall’s looking at him, up at him from where he’s sprawled out on the bed, just as hard and just as breathless and just as desperate, and he’s giving Harry a sensitive expression that isn’t as judgmental as it is confused. At least he’s not hurt, at least he’s not mad, at least he’s not displeased.

Disappointed, confused, lost? Harry can handle that. Easy. But ― but angry, put out, offended? No. _Never_. And the idea, the very thought that he could nurse, that he could implant insecurity, sensitivity in somebody who shines, who glows, makes Harry sick to his stomach.

“It’s usually me who’s stopping you,” Niall quips, grins, and his lips are red, are swollen, and his hair is a mess and his face is flushed and there’s a sparkle of perspiration on his brow that reminds Harry of how sweaty the two of them get when they take care of one another. “I’m ready… for you, and I didn’t want to stop. I don’t want to stop if you don’t want to”

“I didn’t.” Harry screws his lips up into a tight, crooked smile, ignores the mist, the fog of tears that’s gathering in his eyes. “I wanted to keep going, Ni.”

“Ah.” Niall shifts, folds his arms behind his head as a pillow and looks up, scatters his eyes across Harry’s face. “I’ll pretend being rejected doesn’t hurt as much as it does, and I’m really fuckin’ in awe of ya, I swear, being able to stop and still smile at me like… like you do. Takes a hell of a lot more than I have in me.”

“Niall.”

Something flashes across Niall’s face then, and maybe ― maybe he knows, maybe he understands, maybe he accepts. “What’s up, Harry?” he asks, raises a brow.

And Harry’s not ready to spill his heart, not ready to dissect his mind, not ready to break off the tentative buds of a lasting relationship he and Niall are nurturing.

He’s not ready, not not not, and ― and he can stall, can draw the attention away from the telltale signs that something is wrong because he’s always been good at fibbing, always been good at blocking, always been good at hiding.

It’s kind of all he knows to do at this point.  

Harry shakes his head. “I want to ― believe me, Niall, I do,” he replies, groans exasperatedly in the back of his throat as Niall naughtily eyes the bulge of his cock in his jeans; he grabs his crotch, gives it a squeeze to alleviate a bit of the pain, and Niall’s chuckles are music to Harry’s ears. “I just don’t want to do it right now. Not yet, at least.”

“Not right now?” Niall raises a brow. “Later?”

Harry nods. “Yeah,” he says, reaching down and grabbing Niall’s wrist, pulling him up and off the bed, half into his side so they’re touching, so they’re brushing, and Niall’s eyes are bright enough, are big enough to reflect Harry’s image back at him. “I have something to show you.”

-

With Niall’s hand interlaced in his, Harry uses his other to slide the special key into the lock and push the door to the room open; it’s heavy and thick, painted gray and smeared with stickers claiming danger, claiming prohibition, and it gives way with a groan of metal on cement as it thrusts the two of them out into a different world, into a different universe high above the one below.

The roof is large, for the most part, cut up in uneven, unbalanced sections that’s divided by walls and half-walls and nothing at all; there’s stairs here and a ladder over there and a walkway in front of them, as well as wrought iron railing all the way around the expanse of the drop off and security lights placed at appropriate intervals for more than one reason, Harry reckons.

It’s quite cold up here, too, chillier than he would have thought for this time of the year, and he draws his thick jacket tighter around himself, tucks the long blanket he’s got wrapped around his body across Niall’s shoulders, so they’re sharing heat, so they’re touching, so they’re overlapping and brushing and grazing in the best of ways.

“It’s so quiet up here,” Niall says as the door closes with a hiss, with a sound of grating, and he looks over at Harry, wide-eyed and open, and ― and it’s not quiet, no, because there’s the buzzing of security lights all around and cars down below and human life, human civilization bustling about this evening, but it kind of is quiet, too, at the same time, because there’s no screaming and there’s no pressure and there’s no need to hurry, to rush, to go go go. It’s peaceful, the loud-quiet of it all. Harry feels like he can breathe up here. “How in the world did you manage to get access to the roof?”

Harry smiles, tugs Niall along behind him as he walks further onto the roof, heading toward the walkway; he came up here earlier, before he and Niall checked in, and fiddled about, found what would work and what would not work for a small trip high above the world they’ve known for so long. He thinks Niall will appreciate the view of the countryside to the south better than the humming expanse of the city to the north. Less lights, less craze, less distractions, less reminders of what they have and what they can’t have.

He can only stall for so long, and Niall’s smarter than most, tougher than all, and he’s always been able to figure Harry out faster than the blink of an eye, quicker than the strike of a lightning bolt.

“You’d be surprised how convincing I can be when I really, really want something,” he replies, teases, urging Niall along beside him, and he follows with a glimmer of a smile that glows more brilliant than anything. His eyes are the color of the sky right before the sun fades out for the day; Harry loves how Niall’s made up of all the prettiest colors in the world. “Besides, the manager’s son recognized me and I decided it wouldn’t hurt if I used my name for something like this once in a while.”

Niall snorts. “You’re becoming the clichéd celebrity,” Niall jokes, jostles his shoulder into Harry’s as they make it to the top of the ramp; down below, the city stretches on and then flickers out, gives way to country and peace and easiness, and Harry remembers slices of pie after dinner and movie marathons in the family room with Gemma. “Using your title to get what you want ― very conceited of you. I’m proud to know the great Harry Styles is just as pretentious as the rest of us.”

“Oh, fuck off and quit talkin’ shit and enjoy the stars, yeah?”

Niall laughs, tightens his grip on Harry’s hand and leans in, leans closer; their shoulders are flush and they’re resting against one another, pushing and pulling, and Niall’s cheek is against Harry’s jaw and his ears are cold, tipped with the chill of the evening, but it doesn’t bother him because the stars above are free of smog, of bustling exhaustion, and they’re bright and the moon is big and Harry likes the way it all reflects in the blue of Niall’s eyes and hopes this won’t be the last time he gets to see such pureness even though it kind of feels like it is.

“I have this feeling, kinda like you’re hiding something from me, and I don’t want to be right but I think I am,” Niall says after a minute; Harry’s body stiffens but if Niall notices he doesn’t comment, doesn’t act as if he has, and for that Harry’s grateful because there’s a lot of explaining he has to do that he isn’t looking forward to. “When do you leave?”

“To start filming?”

Niall nods, cuddles close, and Harry pulls his hand free from Niall’s, wraps his arm around Niall’s shoulders so there’s nowhere either of them can go for the time being. This is the last time Harry may get to hold Niall, and he wants it to just as memorable as every other time.

“Monday,” Harry answers, shuts his eyes, blocks out the stars and Niall and the moon and Niall and responsibilities and Niall, Niall, Niall. “I have to meet up with the doctor to make sure everything’s as it should be, and then we’re flying out to location to familiarize ourselves and do a very relaxed run-through with some of the other actors, as far as I know.”

Niall chuckles, tips his head back, knocks Harry in the chin as their eyes meet. “As far as you know, huh?” he repeats, teases, wrinkles his nose and grins, and he’s so bloody cute, so fucking sweet that Harry feels his teeth rotting sometimes.

“I don’t know much.”

“Hmm,” Niall hums, moves his arm around Harry’s waist, turns himself so they’re pressed together, from head to toe and curled into one another’s embrace so completely it’s hard to know how they’ve lived so long, gone so far without each other. “And what do you know?”

Harry takes a deep breath, tries to relax his nerves, his desire, his anger at having to break Niall’s heart. Harry’s going to be away for a while, and Niall’s never in one place for long, either, and ― and neither one of them should ask the other to wait, to hold off, to… to stop living and waste away till they’re together again, and Harry isn’t sure when that’ll be. Days, weeks, months ― who knows? He’s got the film the movie, but his job is far from over when the director yells cut for the final time.

He doesn’t, and Niall doesn’t, either. But Harry does know one thing, and it’s probably what’s going to break them in more ways than one.

“I know we should stop this.”

Niall frowns. “Stop looking at the stars?” Niall asks, furrows his brows, and Harry knows Niall heard him right, knows Niall is only pretending to be in denial to give Harry a chance to change his mind. He doesn’t. “’Cause I agree. It’s beautiful, peaceful, but it’s also too fuckin’ cold for me and I think I can feel my balls shriveling up in my jeans.”

“Niall.”

“And we’ll prob’ly have better fun in the room, anyway,” Niall continues as if Harry didn’t speak, as if Harry isn’t shaking his head, as if Harry isn’t resisting him as he pulls, as he begins to head back to the room. “We can take a bath and drink some beer and talk, and we can go to bed and enjoy the time we have ‘cause you’re leaving Monday and ―”

“ _Niall_.” Harry’s voice is firm, loud and strong; Niall stops, stands straight, thins his lips and casts his eyes to the ground. “Please stop pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Niall doesn’t reply, doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound; he continues to stare at the ground, continues to grit his teeth, continues to clench his fists at his sides ― and Harry’s seen Niall like this before, of course he has, and every time he’s taken Niall in his arms, soothed Niall so he didn’t feel so desolate, but he can’t do that now, not now, and it’s hurting Harry just as much as it’s hurting Niall, and maybe Niall’s right, you know, maybe they should just enjoy the time they have left and part on good terms and pretend like nothing between them ever happened.

Yeah, right.

“Niall.” Harry reaches out, brushes his fingertips along the edge of Niall’s jaw in the softest, gentlest touch.

And then Niall’s backing away, bringing his hands up to shove Harry’s touch to the side, to the ground, and it didn’t hurt, really, but oh God, the insecurity and tenderness of being rejected, of being told no burns in the pit of Harry’s stomach like a wildfire ready to be set loose.

It’ll destroy everything in its path till it’s put out, and, the thing is, Harry isn’t sure his fire can be extinguished, and besides, the hottest flames tend to burn from nothing but dampened embers.

“Don’t touch me, Harry,” Niall says, sneers, and he turns his head just right that the security lights catch all the shadows on his face; his eyes are red and wet, and Harry’s throat thickens and he gasps, chokes, because if Niall cries he will, too, and his afraid this heartache will be the one that doesn’t stop hurting. “Please don’t touch me. Not now.”

Harry nods, takes a step back, gives Niall his space, his room to breathe. “I’m sorry,” he says, breathes, whispers; he tears his eyes off Niall, tosses his head to the side, snorts a puff of humiliated laughter. “It’s empty, too. Apologizing for what I’m doing to you isn’t going to a damn thing, but I am sorry, Niall. I really am.”

Niall makes a noise in the back of his throat, brings his palm up to slap over his mouth, and Harry takes a step forward, one two three, but Niall shakes his head, nearly screams for Harry to stop, and he does, reversing himself so quickly he trips over his feet and nearly falls, and he kind of wishes he did because it may have taken his mind off the emptiness in his heart.

It’s silent between them, completely quiet and still. The noises from earlier are still buzzing around, but Harry isn’t hearing them, isn’t paying attention to them. Niall’s eyes are wide and his fingers are parted, and he’s sucking in air around his palm, in out in out in out, in a fast pace, and Harry feels heavy, feels weighted, feels disgusted because there’s nothing he can do, because there’s nothing Niall wants him to do.

“Why?” Niall asks, chokes; he isn’t crying, no, but there’s tears in his eyes, on his lashes, and his face is blotchy with sobs that he’s isn’t letting free, that he isn’t letting fall. Harry admires his courage. “Why now? Why ― after we decided we wanted to try to be together, and you said you were happy with me, why are you wanting to stop? Why, Harry?”

“Niall, _please_.”

“Don’t I have the right to know?” Niall asks, demands, and he’s loud, so loud, and Harry flinches, shivers; Niall’s got the blanket, and he doesn’t feel the cold anymore, but with physical numbness comes emotional sensitivity, and he’s experiencing everything ten, twenty, a hundred times worse than he normal would. “Don’t I have the right to know why you’re breaking up with me? The least you can do is tell me why, Harry.”

Harry wets his lips, sniffles, brings his hand up and wipes at his eyes, presses the heel of his palm so hard into his socket that black dots obscure his vision when he drops his arm. “’Cause it’s unfair to you and me,” he says, tries to find the right words, and for somebody who can string sentences along to make award-winning songs, he’s shit at putting together a believable excuse for why he’s breaking up with his boyfriend after only being together for a few weeks. “I can’t ask you to wait around for me while I work on this movie. I can’t ask you to put your life on hold while I try my hand at acting ‘cause I’m not going to have time for you, and you can’t ask me to wait for you to travel the world, either. That’s ― that’s _unfair_. And it’s like asking me to stop living my life, and I… I can’t do that to you. I won’t. And you’ve got no right to ask it of me, either.”

“Don’t you get it?” Niall asks, and he moves forward, dents the distance between him and Harry, though they’re still far enough apart that Harry can’t see the blue in Niall’s eyes. “Don’t you understand? I’ll wait for you. Always. You could ask anything of me, Harry, and I’d do it. I’d do whatever you wanted me to do, even if it means putting my life on hold because I don’t need you, but dammit, I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything before. You can ask me to wait for the rest of my life, and I’ll do it. I’ll wait for you because you’re the only person I think is worth it for me.”

Harry blinks, ignores the hot tear that escapes, scorches his cheek; the wind blows, cold and unforgiving, and he’s as raw on the inside as he is out. “I won’t,” he whispers, shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch Niall completely _shatter_. “I won’t wait, Niall. I’m sorry, but I won’t.”

_I can’t._

It’s there. It’s not spoken, but it’s there, and it’s as loud as anything in the silence between them, and Harry’s thinking of walls that stood the test of time for decades, for centuries, for millenniums falling under the weight of breaking off something so great.

Niall whines, throws the blanket to the ground; Harry lifts his gaze, immediately wishes he hadn’t because Niall’s eyes are red and his face is pink and he’s shivering from the chill, shivering from the rejection, and he’s always been so strong, so solid, so secure, and the fact that Harry’s breaking Niall, cracking Niall ― he hates himself for it. He hates himself more than he’s ever hated anything before.

And he had it all planned out, Harry did. Everything ― what he’d say, what he’d do, how he’d do it; it was all here, all there, in his mind and in his heart, and he kept track of it. Every word, every sentence, every apology; wanted to go in prepared, wanted to go in strong and come out stronger. Weak, twisted and torn and warped in two, but still strong. But seeing him now, seeing Niall now, and noticing a change and realizing it’s him, it’s Harry, it’s his fault, it’s his doing, and all the words and actions turn into water in his hands, dribbling away till there’s nothing left behind but the wet remains of his shattered heart and Niall’s horrified soul.

“Oh, Niall.”

_Stop, stop, stop._

_Please._

“I love you, Harry,” Niall says, and the words hit Harry’s chest like a brick, like a house, but he shuts his eyes, ignores the fluttering and ignores the fizzing and ignores the flickering because he can’t, can’t, can’t let Niall think that the love he’s feeling right now is the best he’s going to have. It isn’t. “I’m in love with you, Harry, and you ― and you’re just going to throw it all away, what we feel for one another, because you don’t think we can do it.”

“Don’t say that, Niall.” His inhales rattle in his lungs; his exhales scorch his throat. “Please don’t say that. You deserve so much better than me, and I can’t ever give you what you want, what you’ll want. I can’t do it. It’s wrong of you to ask me to.”

But it’s not. Oh, the feelings Harry has for Niall, the way he cares for Niall ― there’s nothing wrong about them and Harry is repulsed, sick with himself for thinking, for saying, for preaching that it is.

He loves Niall just as much as Niall loves him, and he has for a while, but Niall can do better, so much better, and Harry doesn’t want to stop Niall from living his life. He’d rather hate himself for breaking Niall’s heart than be revolted by himself for wasting Niall’s time.

“You don’t think we can do it!”

“I know we can’t do it, Niall,” Harry says, soft and gentle, and it’s quite funny, quite useless for him to have a tender tone when he’s literally snapping himself in two. “I know we can’t be with each other if we’re going to be apart for so long because I’m me and you’re you and we love so much and we love so easy, and there’s so much more to life than me.”

His eyes sting and his throat squeezes; there, he’s said it, but he won’t say it again, can’t say it again.

“Harry, all I want is you,” Niall announces, and the smile on his face ― oh God, it’s broken and it’s wrecked and it’s so pitiful that the tears Harry’s been holding back fall, and they scald his face on the way down as he hiccups, as he chokes on his sobs, as he crosses his arms over his chest in a last-ditch effort to keep himself together when Niall’s falling completely apart. “You’re it. You’re it for me, and I don’t want anything else.”

Harry shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, “But I don’t want you,” and it tastes nasty on his tongue, burns his esophagus, and he follows it up with, “And you have no right to ask me to stay with you when I ― when I don’t want to, Niall,” and it hurts just as much, churns more hatred and more desolation and more copious amounts of anguish that runs so deep he can feel it in his bones, can feel it in his blood, can feel it bubbling beneath the surface of his skin, and he’s never going to get rid of this feeling, never going to shake the way it burns to break your heart so somebody else’s doesn’t shatter. Years down the road, it’s still going to be there, insistent and bitter in the back of his throat; he’s fucked up the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him and he isn’t sorry for it at all.

Niall presses his lips together, struggles to repress the noises that’s bubbling in the back of his throat as he cries, as he sobs, and Harry was right, you know: this is the heartache that isn’t going to stop hurting no matter how much time passes.

“Tonight,” Niall chokes, gasps, gives Harry a pleading glance, and Harry’s taken so much that he reckons he can afford to give a little bit if it’ll soften the blow. “Just tonight, Harry. That’s all I want, and then… and then I won’t want or ask anything else of you.”

Harry finds that he’s nodding his head yes before Niall’s even stopped speaking.

-

Niall’s fast and insistent, jerking Harry into the room and taking his clothes off, taking  Harry’s off; they fall over onto the bed, knocking into one another, and Harry’s knee slams into Niall’s thighs and Niall’s elbow hits Harry’s jaw, clips him in the chin, and it’s a sting, a bit of physical pain that shocks his system.

“Slow,” he says, murmurs, draws the word out and grabs Niall’s hips and lifts him up, lifts him over; he settles evenly on Harry’s lap, naked and bare, inner thighs hugging outer thighs, and when their cocks brush and graze, Harry twitches all over, mouth wide open like a fish out of water, and the precum on his tip oozes out, spills over, messes Niall’s tummy deliciously. “Slow, Niall.”

“No.” Niall shakes his head, leans down, puts his mouth to Harry’s neck; there’s a vein there, a bulging tendon, and he sucks on the hot skin, using his hands on Harry’s cheeks to move Harry accordingly. “I’m not going slow with you.”

Harry shuts his eyes, winces; he tilts his head, tries to move out of Niall’s grip, tries to fight out of Niall’s grip, but Niall holds on, holds tight, and he shifts his mouth, begins to suckle at Harry’s pulse point till he’s sure he can feel his heart pounding on every centimeter of his body.

Thud, thud, thud.

And it’s shaking, altering. He’s thrumming with it ― with the pleasure, with the pain, with the incredulity of it all, and he feels like he’s vibrating, like he’s pulsating, and he hates it.

He hates it.

_“Niall!”_

Because it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

“Shh.”

Niall’s hands move off Harry’s cheeks, reach over to the side; Harry’s in a position where he can’t see even if he were to open his eyes, but he knows the signs, the telltale sounds of a drawer opening, of plastic being ripped, of a bottle being popped, and it’s lube, fresh and unopened, and Niall’s grabbing Harry’s hands, squeezing the slick onto Harry’s fingers.

“Finger me open, yeah?” he says, requests, and then he’s up and facing away, settling over Harry again; it’s a shock, a surprise of white heat when he envelopes Harry’s prick in his mouth, using his semi-wet hand to drag the foreskin away and tonguing at the slit, dribbling his saliva all the way down the sides and then licking it up before it can dampen in his pubic hair.

 _Fuck_.

Harry groans, arches his back, leans up, shoves his face against Niall’s bum. He kisses the soft flesh, tongues the dry skin, bites the plumpness, uses one hand to spread the cheeks while the other, slick with lube, feels around for the small hole.

It’s tight when he pushes his knuckle in, hot and squeezing, and Niall tenses as his ring of muscles give way, shoves himself down on Harry’s cock in a rush of abrupt sensation; Harry’s tip hits the back of Niall’s throat and he gags, spits and sputters and pulls away, and Harry whines, wheezes, whimpers something uncharacteristically garbled and sinks his teeth into Niall’s cheek, uses that to taper himself from spiraling out of control and make his lasting mark on Niall at the same time.

“Another.”

Harry does as Niall orders, sinks another finger inside and feels around for a bit; he pushes in, pushes further, curls his digits, and touches something soft, something easy, and it makes Niall jolt, makes him whine, and Harry moves his mouth, starts kissing at Niall’s puckered hole as he scissors in and out, in and out, in and out, adding his spit to the slick mix of sliding in, of sliding out, and it tastes like skin, warm and fresh, and there’s so much lube, so much saliva that it’s dripping off of Niall’s hole, that it’s drizzling out of the corners of Harry’s mouth.

A third finger enters, and Niall’s got Harry gripped at the base, holding tight as he slathers saliva all around the length, drooling and moaning and whining and groaning, and his hips are moving, are undulating, and Harry lets Niall fuck himself for a moment, tries to spread Niall as wide as he can.

“Good?”

Niall nods, answers, “Yeah,” and reaches over, grabs something next to the lube; it’s a foil packet, a condom, and he wipes Harry’s cock off before sliding the rubber on with his mouth, _with his mouth_ , and it makes Harry scream, makes Harry yell and jolt and burst, and he’s pushing Niall down, pushing Niall away, and Niall takes the initiative, realizes what Harry wants and sits up, straddles Harry’s hips properly. He takes hold of Harry’s prick, holds him still, and Harry’s hands are on his ass, keeping him spread as he sinks down, down, down, and it’s hot and it’s tight and it’s wet, and Harry’s eyes roll into the back of his head.

_We aren’t even facing one another._

They aren’t even facing one another.

Niall doesn’t take a moment, doesn’t time; he’s pulling up with a wince, with a strangled cry of pain, and then falling back down again, not entirely comfortable or accustomed, and Harry tries to slow him, tries to calm him, but he’s having none of it and swats Harry’s hands away, scratches as Harry’s chest and bare thighs as he opens, as he closes.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way, it isn’t wasn’t supposed to hurt this much. He was only going to say his piece, attempt to explain himself, and now ― now he’s giving Niall something he can never get back.

Splinters of pleasure dart through Harry’s system; he’s hard and Niall’s hot, and they fit together better than he ever imagined, all naked skin and sweaty hands and knocking elbows and hunting lips, and Harry puts his palms on Niall’s hips more to share the rhythm than anything, more to slow Niall down so the two of them can relish this joining before it passes by.

It’s going fast. Too fast. Niall’s moving, so quick and so hard, one hand on his cock and the other tangled in Harry’s pubic hair, tugging till it hurts, and he’s thumbing the slit and using the precum as lubrication, that much Harry can see, and Harry’s mystified, completely enthralled in a way he’s never been, and he hates this but he loves it all at once, the take take take of it, and he knows the piece of himself he’s giving to Niall in this moment is one he’s never going to get back, is one he isn’t ever going to want back, and Niall clenches suddenly, abruptly, and Harry thrusts up, lets out a shrill yell as his orgasm washes over him, as his climax triggers Niall’s, and butterflies are fluttering in his fingertips as Niall stutters with the ecstasy, paints Harry’s tummy in white cream.

So pretty, so precious, so pure.

Niall winces when he rolls off, curls against the edge of the bed and grabs the sheet, tugs it up over his shoulders; there’s no shower, there’s no cleaning, there’s no hugging one another close.

Harry can barely bring himself to pull the condom off and drop it into the trash bin next to the bed.

It was just a fuck, anyway, and Harry reckons that’s something that should probably stay the same. They’re finished ― they’ve barely even started, but they’re already finished.

“Goodnight, Harry. I’ll see you in the morning.”  

_No, you won’t._

And Niall shouldn’t ever think less of himself when he’s as important to Harry as the sun is to the rest of the world.

Harry gulps, shuts his eyes, turns on his side and folds in on himself; his eyes sting, burn, and there’s tears leaking out of the corners, scorching and scalding on his raw cheeks, but there’s a smile on his face, too, and he thinks he has it figured out, as much as he’s supposed to.

He’s fucked up. And he fucked up, too.

And he’s sad. He is sad. _He is_. But he’s really, really happy at the same time, too, because something can make him feel this sad. It sort of… makes him feel alive, reminds him that he’s human and therefore pervious to hurt, to ache, to heartbreak. And the only reason he’s feeling this sad now is because he’s felt something really, really great before, and you have to take the good with the bad in life ― appreciate the good, respect the bad. Niall is that something good, that something great, the one thing Harry wants to keep, wants to hold on to, but he’s realizing he doesn’t get to have everything he wants. So, really, what he’s feeling is a beautiful kind of a sadness, maybe.

But that probably sounds stupid.

-

Hours later, just as the sun is rising up and painting the world in the dim blue of dawn, Harry sneaks one last glance at Niall, relishes the way Niall’s so completely satisfied, so entirely comfortable on the bed, dead asleep and thoroughly exhausted. He’s naked, skin soft and hard and rough and blotched, and there’s gentle, fading marks on his back, on his sides, on his hips, on the insides of his thighs; the sheets are tangled up around his midsection, leaving his legs and torso bare, and Harry thinks it’s beautiful, thinks Niall’s beautiful, so sprawled and spread and serene, if only for a few more moments.

The doings of last night, of early this morning are going to be something Harry never, ever forgets, and he hopes it isn’t horrible of him to want Niall to hold on to the memories they made together last night.

It probably is.

He isn’t sure what kind of a person he is now, isn’t sure if he should be ashamed or if he should be proud.

“Love you, too,” Harry whispers, mouths the words to thin air. “And I’m sorry.”

_So sorry._

He kneels down, grabs the light bag he brought and takes a deep breath, pivots on his heel, walks out of the room and into the corridor and toward the elevator at the end of the hall; he turns his phone off and prays that the darkened sunglasses he’s got over his eyes hides the fact that he was up all night crying from any reporters he may run in to because he isn’t looking for a scene, isn’t looking for a mess when all he wants is quiet, when all he wants is peace.

He isn’t sure if he deserves that.

But Niall does, and dammit, Harry’s going to give Niall everything he wants no matter how much it hurts, not matter how much it pains, no matter how much it breaks him further.

And so he does what his mum would do, what his sister would do: he stands tall, squares his shoulders, sniffles his last tear, puts on a smile for the world to see and steps outside into the one place he never wanted to go.  

-

Those weren’t his last tears, by the way, and planes are only acceptable to cry on when you’re locked in the restroom, and it’s worth the risk of mile high club rumors circulating the world outside if it means he can shut it out for a bit longer, and really, it’s quite fucking shitty how he and a nice, tender flight attendant are sexualized, are pressed of information when all she did was sneak inside and offer him a snack and something drink, a fresh roll of tissues and a listening ear if he needed, wanted one, and she was, so wonderfully nice, and he doesn’t deserve any decency after breaking Niall’s heart.

-

It wasn’t worth it, though, the rumors and grainy photos of her sneaking in, of her sneaking out, because when the plane lands on set and he’s got enough strength to turn his phone on, he sees that Louis and Liam have both sent him a link to a rather perverted sight that claims he was shacked up in the restroom adding to his list of mile high memories, and with a wobbly lip he doesn’t respond to Liam’s questions, ignores his mum’s call, alienates himself from Louis when he brings up Niall, deletes his sister’s message asking if everything is okay.

-

Because it’s not. No matter how much he wants it to be, things are not okay.

And it’s all his fault, and it’s a blame he’ll gladly take if it means Niall doesn’t have to deal with the whiplash of anything, but it hurts so much more than he ever thought possible.

-

The air is chilly and smells fresh, smells crisp; he’s got a pack slung over his shoulder and one hanging in his hand, and everything’s bare, empty, void of human life, and he thinks this is the first time he’s ever stepped off of a private jet without being completely bombarded.

He likes it, and though it doesn’t nothing to nurse the stabbing wound in his heart, in his chest, it soothes the pain.

Somewhat.

“It’s good to have you on board, Harry,” Tom says ― Tom Hardy, Tom fuckin’ Hardy ― and he’s a hell of a lot more handsome in person than he is on screen, goodness, and he’s strong, so strong and thick and built, and so nice and sweet and endearing, enthralling, energetic, and Harry isn’t sure if he wants to hug or lick the man, isn’t sure what’s socially appropriate considering they’re surrounded by other cast members, too, all congregating in a large semi-circle awaiting direction. “I’m glad you decided to join. A young, promising actor is just what we need ‘round here and you’ve blown us all away. I can’t wait to work with you.”

A young, promising actor. Not a singer, not an award-winning musical artist, not one fourth of the most famous boyband of all time.

Harry likes that. Even though it feels like he’s shedding a skin, a mask, breaking down a wall he’s had up since he was sixteen-years-old ― it feels nice; this is a new chapter in his life, one he’s been eager to start on after dog-earring the rest of the pages while going through Zayn’s departure and the icy aftermath, and it feels good to be noticed, to be recognized for something other than One Direction for once.

He’s still Harry Styles, one fourth of the band One Direction, but now he’s also Harry Styles, the movie actor, and the transition, the addition ― it’s not hard at all; it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

He nods, grins, offers his hand for Tom to shake, and he does so with force, with gusto, and Harry likes this man, admires this man, strives to be like this man. “Glad to be here,” he says, and yeah, his heart is kind of shattered and he’s still got scratches on his chest from Niall’s nails a few nights before, but he is. Glad to be here. Even if he’s feeling empty and absent. “I think it’s going to be good.”

He hopes it’s going to be good.

-

Niall doesn’t try to contact him, doesn’t try to send a message or a tweet or an email, and Harry can pretend all he wants that he wasn’t expecting Niall to, that he wasn’t hoping for Niall to, because they’ve broken up, yeah, and he knows of exes who can still be friends, who still are friends, but the fact is that he’s the one that cries himself asleep that first night, wiping furiously at tears that leave streaks of raw and wet pain on his face, and yeah, it’s his fault, all of it is, but one word, one single nod of acknowledgment from Niall in his direction isn’t too much to ask for, is it?

-

It is.

-

Louis and Liam haven’t contacted him since the pictures of him in the plane’s restroom leaked, either, and he doesn’t blame them as much as they do him.

-

They’re nice, the actors and the crew and the extras and the workers; they make him smile, make him laugh, make him feel light when he’s got so many things weighing him down, and there’s pranks and there’s jokes and there’s the odd altercation here and there between two people, between a group of people who don’t agree with one another, but nobody goes to bed mad at the end of the day and Harry likes the ease with which he was accepted, doesn’t think he could have managed if he wasn’t taken in with open arms and warm smiles and gentle hands.  

He doesn’t take them for granted, though, reckons they won’t be filming together forever, and while he’s made lasting relationships with most, with all of them, it isn’t the one he truly wants.

So he’s appreciating it, appreciating them like he didn’t Niall, like he didn’t his relationship with Niall, like he didn’t the time he had with Niall. The smiles, the laughs ― they’re real, they’re honest, they’re true.

They just aren’t whole, and they definitely aren’t going to last.

And he’s done a good job of pretending; maybe he is a great actor, after all.

-

His mum tries to get hold of him, calling him every night and every morning, and he doesn’t take her calls, opts to instead allow her to leave a voice message and listens to it when he doesn’t think he’ll cry, when he doesn’t think he’ll break, when he doesn’t think he’ll snap and buy a ticket home to see her, to lay his head in her lap and spill his heart out for her to see, to fix, and it makes him angry, makes him sad that he’s alienating his biggest fan, his biggest supporter, his loving mother when he’s truly blessed to have a woman like her in his life, but he doesn’t know what else to do, reckons it’s up to him to fix himself no matter how much he needs her help.

-

Kendall shoots him a text, tells him she’s proud of him when the news finally leaks that he’s got himself a spot on a movie with a few dozen low-quality photos for strict confirmation, and he thanks her, asks her how she’s doing, and they go back and forth for a moment, catching up like old friends, and then it’s over, their conversation, because they’re just friends, regardless of the popular opinion of the world, and Harry’s left to stare off in the dark of his room after a tiring day of filming wondering if there’s anything he can do to fix the cracked relationship he has with Louis, with Liam, both of whom haven’t contacted Harry since the day the photos of him with the flight attendant were posted.

And he didn’t expect it to hurt this much, didn’t expect it to take all his energy and all his willpower and leave him drained, leave him empty; he thinks maybe he deserves it, though, always being tired and let down and desolate, because he did something bad ― he stole Niall’s heart, he broke Niall’s heart ― and this is his repentance.

Suffering.

-

He does his own stunts, as much of them as he can. He likes the way his body bursts with adrenaline, likes the way his mind feels more attuned and in line with the his senses, and at the end of the day it makes him so tired, so sore, so worn out that he doesn’t have enough energy to cry himself to sleep, and so he’s left to dry heave till he passes out from exertion, from exhaustion.

And it’s not a way to live, it’s not, but it’s all he’s got at the moment.

-

Gemma calls him a twat.

Harry tells her to fuck off, to stay out of his business.

She tells him he’s stupid ― for ruining his relationship with Niall, for hurting Niall, for using Niall’s trust against him to split him in two.

He says that she’s got a way with words she ought to encourage more often, but also asks her to stay out of his business a bit more nicely.

She says that she’s his sister, that she cares, that not everybody in the world has people who adore them as much as he’s adored, and she isn’t saying that to make him feel bad, no, but to instead help him realize that there’s so much good in his life, in his world that he shouldn’t be crying himself to sleep at night.

He asks why she knows that, how she knows that.

She doesn’t tell him, swears to take it to the grave with her.

He finds that she’s the only person he can talk to when it gets too much, though, finds that he would be much more lost than he already is if he didn’t have somebody like her in his life, and she’s annoying and she’s an ass but she’s his sister, his friend, and even when her words make him so mad he’s spitting with it he knows she’s right, knows she’s only got his best regards at heart.

She tells him he’s an asshole.

He tells her he appreciates her more than she’ll ever know.  

-

Niall tweets a lot, posts funny and endearing videos and pictures on Snapchat, on Instagram, capturing the essence of his power and the status of the legends he’s with, and Harry’s perfectly okay with admitting that Niall is the reason Harry downloaded the nefarious app, for the most part, because Gemma is quite unreliable when it comes to sending him updates.

He’s doing good. Niall is, at least. He’s smiling in the photos, having fun in the photos, laughing and going on and living in the photos, and Harry’s happy, he is, glad their ugly parting didn’t ruin as much as him as it did Harry.

Harry’s really, really glad that Niall looks to be as happy as he can be.

And he’s angry with the fans ― with the _fans_ ― that upset Niall, that took to a group chat on Twitter to hurt, to bully Niall; Harry wonders why there’s so much nastiness, why there’s so much ugliness in the world, and he’s appalled at the actions of those who have pledged to support them.

This isn’t the first time, and it surely isn’t going to be the last time, either, because the world tends to teach history and not learn from the mistakes made ― but where’s the decency? Where’s the morality compass in people that tells them right from wrong, that tells them good from bad?

(Harry will be the first to tell you that the right thing isn’t always a good thing.)

Bullying isn’t support, hurting isn’t support. It’s fucking harassment, punishable by law, and ― and Harry’s only nice when others are nice to him and the thing is, Niall’s his king, even though they’re broken up and haven’t spoken in what feels like years Niall is still is king, and he’ll go to war to make sure he’s okay, to make sure everything’s okay.

-

He stays quiet, Harry does. He’s busy with the movie, for the most part, going to and fro with a rigorous schedule that’s on par with the band’s touring, and that’s a plausible excuse ― he isn’t left with much free time ― and another part of him just doesn’t want to speak out about anything, honestly.

Sometimes it feels better to not talk. At all. To anyone. About anything.

-

And you know what? Maybe love isn’t about grand displays of affection, isn’t about confirming the relationship status on social media, isn’t about being papped out and about with your hand wound tight with theirs.

Maybe love is them taking you out in the middle of the night at three in the morning when they’d rather be asleep and walking around the city with red cheeks and foggy breaths; maybe love is them making sure you eat enough and sleep enough and talk enough and think enough; maybe love is staying with you till you fall asleep so you don’t wake up in the morning feeling alone and unwanted.

Love is all about the little things.

-

He runs a lot. It’s crisp and wet outside most of the time, chilly and welcoming; he’s got friends, got cast members, got bodyguards at his side more than not, and sometimes there’s people on the streets or in vehicles or browsing shops that recognize him, that wave at him, and he acknowledges them, returns their kind gestures with his own, but sometimes he wants to be alone, wants to be by himself.

He runs a lot at night. When the regret, when the pain is too much, he tends to run. He slips on some sweats, a hoodie, a fuzzy beanie, ties his shoes and heads out, leaves his phone and leaves his watch and leaves his wallet and leaves the presence of the world as much as he can.

And it helps. Running, that is; it simultaneously takes his mind off of things and clears everything up, too.

He’s got a lot of regret. He’s realized that. 

He runs till he’s sweating, runs till he’s gasping, runs till he’s aching, runs till the sun begins to peak through the dark sky and bathes the world in blue dawn light the color of ―

― the color of Niall’s eyes.

His tears tend to mix with his sweat and he doesn’t let the extra salt slow him down.

-

Sometimes his mind clears too much and he turns around, heads back to his temporary home, curls up in bed and cries himself to sleep.

He’s ashamed of how often that happens.

-

He’s hurt his wrist; it’s sore and tangibly swollen, tender and meant to be kept elevated on fluffy pillows at the end of the day, and people are saying it’s just a stunt gone wrong when really, it’s a stunt gone right and he likes waking up to the ache in the middle of the night because it reminds him he’s alive even when he doesn’t feel that way.

-

There is more than one type of pain, and each is vastly different from the next.

When it’s physical, precautions can be taken to soothe the ache, to dull to the sting, to simply erase the discomfort altogether in a certain amount of time. It hurts, a lot, as pain tends to do, but even when you’re dying ― even when you’re dying somewhere, lying on the ground after a horrible tragedy, your mind will shut off when it reaches a certain level of pain, of anguish, and you can’t feel a thing; even when you’re dying somewhere else, a hospital or nursing home of old age, of inflicted wounds, of something in between or out of the world, they’ll shoot you up with enough morphine to make you as comfortable as they possibly can.

And you’re comfortable. You’re at ease. Your body knows naturally how to take care of pain, of course, and then there’s the intelligent medical systems in the world who are aware of just how to make you comfortable, too, and you’re okay. You’ll be okay ― even if you’re dead, dying, you’ll be okay.

But when the pain is mental ― when it’s in your head, when it’s in your mind, there’s no shutting it off and there’s no ignoring it away and there’s no dulling it down. There’s only feel, and there’s only dealing with it, and there’s ways to delude the pain, yes ― liquor, drugs, adrenaline, upon more, and Harry’s not as proud of his actions as he once was before ― but it never goes away. It’s there, always, taunting you from the shadows and curling its nasty finger at you, bringing you along for a ride you never wanted to take.

And when it’s emotional, when it’s in your heart and when it’s in your soul ― you’re a lost cause. There’s absolutely nothing you can do to fix that kind of pain.

-

Harry lied.

You can forgive yourself to fix your emotional pain, the kind that holds steady and bites at you when you’re feeling good, when you’re feeling up to smiling.

It’s just ― Harry doesn’t know if he can forgive himself, doesn’t know if he wants to forgive himself, and maybe this pain he’s feeling is what he has to live with now.

-

It’s only a bad life when he cries so much he exhausts himself into a fitful sleep at night.

-

It’s every night.

-

His dad and Robin text him, tell him to call his mother, that she wants to hear his voice and not read half-hearted message that was thumbed in the middle of the night with shaking fingers and bloodshot eyes. He says she misses him, says they all miss him ― even Louis and Liam, surprising, both of whom have been in contact with his family if not him, and he reckons that’s as much forgiven as he’s going to get.

They don’t talk about Niall.

He deletes their messages, pretends to not have known anything about them when Gemma calls him for her weekly round of curses, but he thinks she knows the truth and he loves her, adores her for not telling anyone, for letting him take care of this on his own even when it’s in the air between them that she relays most of their conversations back to the others who are begging to speak with him.

-

He wishes he wasn’t on his own.

-

And then he realizes that he doesn’t have to be.

-

He got off for a bit, for a long weekend, and hitched a ride home after landing as discreetly as he can in London, all the way to Cheshire, and now he’s in his mum’s kitchen, in the home he grew up in, and he’s sat at the table, waiting for the cookies to be finished like ― like a little kid, like a small child who’s just had his life ripped away from him, and Gemma’s even sat to his left like she used to be, like she’s supposed to be, and their mum has on the faded apron the two of them bought with their change years ago and there’s music playing, there’s Elvis playing, and Robin’s at work and it’s so, so much like it was the first few days after the divorce, the first few years after the divorce, and he just kind of bursts into a fitful round of sobs that echo blatantly off the walls around him at the realization that he’s not learned from the mistakes written in his own history, either.

And he expects to be alone, expects to blandly comfort himself as he has for days, for weeks, for months, and the emptiness, the barren and deflated feeling he gets in the bottom of his stomach is something he’s used to, something he’s accustomed to, and he’s ready to be by himself in this time of need and doesn’t give thought to being taken care of by those around him.

But he isn’t by himself.

Because Gemma’s got one arm around his shoulders, hand pressed into his hair, pushing their temples together, and their mum has the two of them wrapped up from behind, all sinewy limbs and knobby knuckles and sugary sweet spice; Gemma’s fingers are tight in his hair, wound around and around and around, and his mum’s, his mummy’s hands are warm and calloused on his bicep, and nobody speaks, none of them talk, but he thinks this is an instance where words aren’t necessary.

He was never by himself. He was never alone.

-

You know what? You can’t get your heart broken if you never give it away. Maybe love isn’t worth it; maybe love costs too much.

And it just kind of ruins him, for lack of a better word, knowing that he’s trying his hardest and even that wasn’t good enough, isn’t good enough.

-

“You messed up,” Gemma says, offers her opinion, her words of advice, and Harry nods, bites his wobbling bottom lip; his raises his gaze, sees that her eyes are just as red as his, burning just as hot as his, and he doesn’t feel alone because he was neve alone. “You messed up something great, Harry, and you may never get it back.”

“I know.” He swallows around the thick lump of repressed tears in his throat, fidgets and fiddles with the pillow in his hands; he shifts on the bed, lays back, grabs the blanket at the end and pulls it up over his feet. “I know I did.”

_But I need you telling me so I don’t continue to make that mistake again._

“Why?” she asks, crosses her legs and grabs one of the pillows from the floor, sets it in her lap and fiddles with the stitching, with the loose threading. “Why did you break up with him when it wasn’t what you wanted to do?”

Harry sighs, steadies his rattling nerves as much as he can. “I didn’t think I could do it,” he replies, tries to ― tries to put his thoughts, his feelings, his need and desire and desperation to give Niall a life he deserves into words, into something he’s struggled so hard with. “Niall wanted to travel and I wanted to work on the movie, and ― and it wouldn’t have worked out. A long distance relationship wouldn’t have worked out between the two of us.”

“How do you know that?” she asks, slants her head, and then her eyes widen as she realizes, as she figures it out. “You… you didn’t know, did you? You just assumed that it wouldn’t, and ―”

“And I got scared, Gemma,” he says, cuts her off, finishes whatever thought she was having. “I got so scared that it wouldn’t have worked out that I cut it off before it was ripped away from me.”

Gemma shakes her head, gives him the barest hint of a smile he’s ever seen on her before. “It would have worked out, Harry,” she says, quiet and soft, and her words cut at his heart, steal his breath away. “I know it would have.”

“How?”

“Niall’s one of the best men I’ve ever known,” she says, whispers, voice heavy with ― with something, and he likes it but he doesn’t like it all at once, and Gemma’s the one person in his life that’s never lied to him. She’ll tell him the truth even when it’s ugly, even when it’s not what he wanted to hear. “Did you love him? When you broke it off, I mean. Did you love him even when you said you didn’t?”

Harry shuts his eyes, breathes in a shaky breath of strength. “I’ve not stopped.”

And it’s silent for a moment, as it should be, but then ― “And I’m really fucking pissed at you for not telling me anything about you and Niall, by the way,” and it’s so Gemma, such a Gemma thing for her to say, and it has Harry laughing, has him guffawing, and there’s tears leaking out of his eyes by the time the night is finished, is through, but it’s the good kind for once and he doesn’t feel as raw as he did before he walked into her room.

-

His mum smells like vanilla and spice, warm and fresh; her thighs are soft, smooth, plump, and they make a good pillow, a great pillow, and Robin’s asleep at the other end of the sofa and Harry’s got his feet in his stepdad’s lap with a maroon throw around him and Gemma’s stretched out on the floor in front of the couch as the television plays reruns of his favorite films.

It’s quiet, so quiet. There’s the noise of drizzling rain outside the window and there’s the noise of the television and there’s the noise of his heartbeat, of his mum’s heartbeat, of Robin’s heartbeat, of Gemma’s heartbeat, but everything’s so quiet, so easy, so ― so calm and slow, and he can breathe.

He can breathe.

He’s got his mum’s fingers in his hair and he’s got his feet in his stepdad’s lap and he’s got one of his hands tangled with his sister’s, and he can breathe.

-

It’s two simple texts a few days later that makes him happy, that makes him smile; he saves them to his phone, decides they’re something he wants to keep forever to remind him of the hell, of the pain, of the mess he’s pulled through.

From Liam: _I’m sorry. You’re my brother, and I haven’t been there for you like I should. I didn’t see what was going on right under my nose. I hope you can forgive me._

To Liam: _There’s nothing to forgive. I’m glad I have you._

From Louis: _I’m sorry, should’ve been there for you instead of ignoring you. But you’re still a twat, fuckin wanker, and what you did isn’t okay but I reckon you aren’t okay, either. Come visit when you get a chance before Freddie’s too big, yeah?_

To Louis: _Give the lad extra kisses till I can make it. See you soon._

-

He realizes something, though, after days and weeks and months, and he thinks it’s the greatest lesson he’s learned in his entire life.

You never get over anything, you never forget about anything; it’s there, always, in the back of your mind and in a small part of your heart, and you think you’ve gotten rid of it, think you’ve forged on and fought hard to come out on top, but you don’t, you haven’t, and you’ll never escape.

Because it hits you, days later and weeks later and years later, and when it does, it’s hard ― it takes your breath, leaves you weak in the knees, and you’re left gasping on the side of the road after a run with tears streaming down your face but there’s a smile on your lips, too, and your friends are asking if you’re okay, if you need anything, and you just shake your head, sobbing and grinning, and tell them that you’re fine, that everything’s going to be fine.

You never get over anything. _Ever_. But you do learn to live with it, with the pain and the emptiness and the absence.

And Harry doesn’t feel as heavy as he used to.

-

He’s done it. He’s forgive himself.

-

It’s a text from Niall a few weeks later, simple and stoic: _Brewery Café, on the river in London. You know the one._

And yeah, Harry knows the one, and he’s never booked a plane ticket home that fast before.

-

He waits the first day into the hours of the night, nursing coffee and then lemonade and then a pint, eating when he’s hungry and eating when he’s bored, and when the lights of the café dims he pays for his pitiful heartbreak and takes his leave and holds his head high, knows he’s not going to give up this time because he’s scared of a little bit of hard work.

-

It rains the second day, sheets of water that blanket the earth and obscure his vision as he walks through it, and the table he’s got inside is next to the door; he’s able to see everyone who enters, who exits, and he isn’t as upset today as he was yesterday when he goes back to his hotel with a full head of words and an empty heart because it smells crisp outside and there’s a weird sort of bubbling excitement in the pit of his stomach.

-

And ― you know, the third time is the charm, as they say, and he finds Niall waiting on him the next day with a tentative smile and a peace offering. 

-

Harry brings the cool cup of lemonade to his lips, takes a sip of the sour-sweet liquid that reminds him of all things hot and sunshine-colored; Niall’s sat across from him, dressed adorably, comfortably, in a pair of ripped jeans and a faded blue t-shirt that makes his eyes look darker than they are, and the tender, sensitive smile on his face takes Harry away to memories made in the back of the bus, in the dark rooms, on the flashing stage.

It’s been so, so long.

He’s learned it’s hard when you miss people, hard when you’re used to not having somebody at your side when they’ve been there forever. But it’s also kind of beautiful, in a way, too, because if you miss someone that much, it means you were lucky ― it means you had somebody special, it means you had something great that’s worth pining, that’s worth missing.

“How have you been?” he asks, slow and timid; he’s thought about he and Niall speaking on the phone, thought about he and Niall talking back and forth, thought about he and Niall texting one another a few times, but it’s wildly different now that he’s able to see Niall’s eyes, able to see Niall’s endearing stubble and remember, feel all the things he did when they were together, and he understands that reality is so much better than dreams no matter how idealistic the latter tends to be. “It’s… it’s been a few months, hasn’t it?”

It’s been several months, actually, since he decided it was better to put to rest the tiny, tiny romance they were stoking, they were nurturing than attempt to keep it intact so far away ― and it was for the best, you know, but what was best then isn’t necessarily what is best now, and Harry’s not sure where he’s going to be five months from now, five years from, but he hopes, prays to God that it’s somewhere with a stunning view and next to Niall.

Harry will be the first one to tell you ― true feelings, horrible timing, honest advances, bad reactions make the most painful combination.  

But he’s okay now. He’s okay.

And Niall looks like he is, too.

“I’ve been good,” Niall replies, smile, stirs the straw in his steaming cup of coffee, and why he’s drinking such a hot drink in this weather without breaking a sweat is something only he would do, something Harry admires about him. “Everything’s been good. How’s the movie?”

Harry grins, looks away, tries to hide his proud smile behind his hand even though he’s never been able to keep something from Niall. “It’s almost finished,” he answers, nostalgic and reminiscent; he’s made memories and friends, tons of both, but the thing is ― what good times he’s had filming this movie, all uncountable moments that he’ll not ever forget, can’t match up to spending one single minute in Niall’s presence. He wishes he would’ve realized that before he left Niall in their hotel room, subdued and empty and bare with all that he laid out for Harry to take, to protect. “Movies are definitely something I can see myself doing for a while.”

“Till you get tired of it?”

Harry nods, says, “Till I get tired of it, yeah,” and hopes it won’t be any time soon.

“Like you did me?” Niall quips, emotionless, and Harry raises his eyes to Niall’s face ― and then his gaze is widening and his skin is paling, and he’s shaking his head, holding his hands up in defeat, and Harry knows it was an accidental slip of the tongue, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less. Harry messed up, made the biggest mistake of his life; he doesn’t need to be reminded every moment, every second of his stupidity, of his reluctance to admit that he was in love with his best friend. “I ― I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry for that. It wasn’t very fair of me.”

He’s ready now, though ― and the love he has for Niall is just growing, just blossoming, and he hopes Niall’s waited for him even though he doesn’t deserve it.

“It’s okay.” Harry waves off Niall’s worry, tries to ignore the thickness in his throat; it’s hot in London right now, sunny and bright and heavy, and he’s glad to have his hair cut so short to fend off some of the heat, some of the mortification. Niall’s never been one to beat around the bush, not when it comes to him. He respects that. “I’ve really missed you, by the way. I ― we had some good times.”

They had so many good times, made so many memories; a thousand, a million moments Harry took for granted because he thought, because he assumed there would be a thousand, a million more.

It hurts to be wrong.

He’s learned a few important lessons, but his favorite ― the little things, the little moments, the little smiles and little touches and little memories aren’t as little as you think, and not appreciating them wholly, separately makes you ache when they’re all over.

Niall nods, looks up and stares at the fluffy, fat clouds in the sky, and all Harry can think of is the way the night air felt around him when Niall whispered words of worship against his skin the last day they were together, all naked skin and cracked breaths and hungry fingers and luminescent sentences gasped in one another’s ears as they moved and arched and thrusted and came at the same time, at the same moment.

“I wish you’d have told me that sooner,” Niall says, gives a half smile that makes Harry think of waning moonlight and sparkling stars and quiet, panted breath as they moved, as they took, as they gave.

Harry just took too much, didn’t give nearly enough; when you wait too long to appreciate the love you’re given, the love you’re taking, it leaves.

“It’s hard to stop thinking about you. I’ll see a pretty flower on the side of the road or I’ll think of a funny joke, and I’ll look to my side to point it out, to make you laugh, and you aren’t there. And at night, when I’m in bed, I just ― I just think of all the times you would tell me about your day, about what you did, and how I’d fall asleep by the time you were finished, and I hope you never thought you were boring ‘cause you aren’t and you never will be, but you were so easy and so soothing to listen to it. And I ―”

“I’m sorry,” Niall interrupts, shakes his head; his face is red and he’s looking at Harry’s eyes, looking at Harry’s face, and Harry knows what he’s about to say before he even does. “You can’t… you can’t do this to me, Harry. Not now. I’ve ― I’ve gotten so much better. And I’m very ― I it. I like what I have without you. A lot.”

“Oh.” Harry’s heart stutters, stops; the tight thickness in his throat spreads, and he feels the heaviness in his chest, in his stomach, in his loins. He waited too long, and now that love is gone and Niall’s not waiting for him like he said he would be. “Well.” He scratches the back of his neck, offers Niall a gentle, sensitive smile. “I hope you find somebody to treat you the way you deserve. I hope they know that they’ve got something great with you.”

“You really think that?” Niall asks, and he’s beaming ― so bright, so brilliant, so blatantly happy that Harry can’t help but feel overjoyed for him, as well, regardless of the despair and hurt swimming in his blood.

“I do.”

And he does, because if Niall’s happy, he’s happy ― for him, with him, without him.

Niall’s tongue darts out of his mouth, wets his lips, and Harry wonders if he’s enjoying the bitterness of coffee on his skin, wonders if he knows that’s one of Harry’s favorite tastes. “You know, Harry, if you would have told me this a few months ago, I ―”

“I know,” Harry cuts him off, thins his lips, gives Niall a tight smile that craters his cheeks and hurts his eyes and makes him feel naked in every way. “I know.”

-

“What time does your plane leave?” Niall asks, fiddling with something in his lap as he meets Harry’s eyes, strong and head-on.

Harry wets his lips, taps his fingers against his knee; he’s nervous ― they’ve been sat at this café for a few hours and he’s still nervous, still shaky ― but he reckons Niall’s not near as collected as he’s making himself seem, either.

“I have to be back in a few days,” he says, replies, and he looks at Niall, looks at Niall in a way he hasn’t been able to in months, and he’s still just as beautiful as he was when they parted ways, all perfect imperfections that make him wonderfully magnificent and enchanting. “We’re allowed certain time off, and we’re set to start shooting again next week.”

Niall thins his lips. “Want to spend the night with me?”

“Is that a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” Niall says, replies, and he’s got a smile ― he’s got this grin, this devil may care grin, and it makes Harry feel hot all over because you only see something like this once in a lifetime. “But it’s an idea, and it’s been a long time, and I want one last night with you.”

Harry finds that he still can’t tell Niall no.

-

Niall’s slow and careful, methodic and easy, gentle and soothing; he brings Harry back to his room, and it’s bathed in all sorts of beiges and tans and browns, and Harry likes how it smells of cinnamon, of spice, warm and dissolving in the smoothest way, and Niall’s fingers are loving, are kind, are nice as they strip Harry of his clothes, as they rid him of his shoes and his shirt and his jeans and his underwear and his socks.

Their mouths meet and hold, and it’s lips on lips and tongues on tongues, swirling and swiping and swishing back and forth, back and forth; Harry backs up, hits the edge with the bends of his knees and falls, lands softly on the mattress in a flurry of pillows and limbs. Niall comes down with him, chuckling adorably against Harry’s mouth, and Harry divests Niall of his clothes, throws them off, throws them to the side.

And then it’s skin on skin, fingertips on naked flesh, and Harry’s mewling in the back of his throat as Niall kisses down his throat, across his veins and over his Adam’s apple and in the hollow between his clavicles, slicking his body with so much saliva that he’s sparkling in the dimness of the lamplight; his tongue trails over the sharp ridges of Harry’s collarbones, first one and then the other, and he sucks, suckles Harry’s nipples, plays with the hard nubs till they’re pebbled peaks of stiff desire and Harry’s sweating, leaking, whimpering in the back of his throat and on the verge of tears from holding in so long, from being deprived for so long.

“Slow,” Niall says, whispers against Harry’s skin; he paints the word, smears the letters across Harry’s rapidly moving tummy, and Harry whines, nods, twines his fingers in Niall’s hair for a tether, for a fetter to this world, to the here and to the now before his soaring soul takes his heart on the ride of his life. “Slow, Harry.”

“As slow as you want it.”

They do. They go slow.

Slow, slow, slow.

Niall’s slow to envelop Harry in his mouth, slow to flick his wrist on the length that he can’t fit, slow to bring Harry to the brink of an attainable orgasm, slow to grab the lube, slow to slick up his fingertips, slow to rub Harry’s hole, slow to finger Harry open, slow to put on the condom, slow to push inside, slow to pull outside.

Slow, slow, slow.

And Harry’s taken by storm, face pressed into the mattress, into the pillows as he begs, as he pleads, as he fucks back on Niall’s thrusts, ass up in the air and knees spread wide and arms grabbing at something, grabbing at nothing, but Niall just pets him, just praises him, and goes slow, steady and easy, in and out and in and out and in and out at a comfortable pace of giving and taking.

Slow, slow, slow.

Harry can feel it all, can feel everything. There’s fire in his fingertips as he curls his fists in the sweat-damp sheets and there’s ice on the small of his back as he arches to get Niall deeper and there’s salt in his mouth as he sings for Niall and there’s goosebumps on his hot skin as he adheres his body to Niall’s and there’s water in his eyes as the exertion of making love fatigues his system and slows down his climax, his orgasm.

Slow, slow, slow.

In, out; in, out; in, out; in, out.

Over and over and over.

And it hits him hard, hits him out of the blue; he’s crying, sobbing with the electric feel of it all as he comes, as he squirts all over the sheets, and it’s nebulas and supernovas and shooting stars, all the colors in the spectrum and then some more, and then Niall’s orgasming inside of him, all sorts of twitches and bucks and over-stimulated sensitivity, and he’s climaxing again, once more, and it’s dry, kind of, and it takes the last of his remaining energy away, sucks him empty, but Niall’s here, Niall’s behind him, Niall’s on top of him and Niall’s filling him up, putting his heart into the holes Harry’s been trying to hide for so long.

-

They shower afterward, and it’s hands tangling in hair, fingers dancing across freshly-washed skin, and Harry gets Niall to come again, to come in his mouth, and it’s a lot, it’s so much that it dribbles out of the corners of his lips and Niall jerks him up and kisses him, and they share the cum, play in the cum with their tongues, swallowing the amalgamation of jizz and spit, and Niall drags another orgasm out of Harry not long before they turn the water off and grab the fluffy towels to dry one another off.

-

Once more, it happens once more, and Niall’s beneath Harry this time, legs spread and arms wrapped around Harry’s neck, and it’s slow but it’s hard, it’s gentle but it’s rough, and they’re breathing into one another’s mouths, crying onto one another’s shoulders, and this feels like the end, this feels like the honest end of them, of the relationship they had with one another, and Harry stifles a scream and Niall swallows his sobs when they come together, all sorts of sticky and sweet and sweaty and sated.

-

The sun is high in the sky when Harry wakes up, warm and dry and bright, all yellows and blues and whites, pure and raw and irrevocably innocent, and he thinks there’s something about sunrises that makes goodbyes feel more like a see you later than anything else, hopeful and expecting; his heart is tight and his stomach is full, but there’s a smile on his face as he stands up, as he grabs his discarded clothes, as he pens a note on the back of a used napkin for Niall to see, for Niall to read and understand for far deeper than it is.

_I’ll see you when I see you. Take care of my heart and I’ll take care of yours in return._

And he’s satisfied, as much as he can be with leaving Niall again, with walking out on Niall when he’s curled up in bed, naked and exhausted and glowing from the night before with bruises kissed into the skin of his shoulders and hair messy from being combed through with fingers.

But it’s different this time. It’s different, and Harry doesn’t feel as… empty. He feels entirely too full, wonders if it’s hope or if it’s acceptance or if it’s something entirely different than anything he’s ever experienced before.

-

And he’s only a few paces outside of the hotel after having paid in advance for Niall’s stay with his hands stuffed in his pockets and happy tears bubbling in his eyes and a bittersweet smile on his lips when Niall’s slamming into his back, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist from behind, and when Niall puts his mouth to Harry’s neck, smears the words, “Everything’s going to be okay, Harry,” he realizes that he’s known all along that things will work out the way they’re always supposed to.


End file.
